


Kilvin and the Ever-Burning Lamp

by Starrik



Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Headcanon, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 03:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9638078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starrik/pseuds/Starrik
Summary: A short headcanon as to why Kilvin is so intent on creating an ever-burning lamp. Needlessly dramatic.





	

The soft light of a candle was no good for a watchman. Only an oil-burning lamp would do the trick, keeping the grass illuminated against the dangers that lurked in the night. The watchman himself was not as steady as the light, bored by the way that seconds seemed to burn slower than the oil.

Nothing happened there, and it had been a very long time since it ever had. The watchman, Heinrich, was for show more than he was skilled. Sure, he could use the spear that rested against his side, but he was no Adem. Here, in their homes, even his Cealdish employers felt safe with their money.

The lamp flickered.

The watchman turned to look down at the nearest house to his little watchtower. A young Cealdish man, all of fifteen, was watching him curiously from inside a window. This had happened before, there was little to do once the sun had set and everyone was confined to the indoors. Often Heinrich had seen the boy reading, but he watched the watchers more closely than his hawk-eyed father.

There was a sputtering from the lamp, and Heinrich shook it. “Damned thing. I should have made sure Wilem refilled you when he finished his shift.” Nothing for it now. Abandoning his post at night for anything less than a fire was worth more than his job, and he was convinced the boy in the window would report him.

“One day, I’ll have a job that lets me sleep nights,” he grumbled, “and I won’t have to stare out at the dark.” He held up the lamp, letting its light shine on the ground more clearly.

Something moved in the nearest bushes to his tower.

The lamp died.

“No!” he cried, pulling a tinderbox from his pocket, and trying to spark the light again. From the corner of his eye, he saw that the boy’s face had vanished from the window.

Strike, ember, darkness. Strike, ember, darkness. Strike, ember, face.

Heinrich toppled over backward, one hand dropping the lamp as he reached for his trusty spear. The lamp shattered as it hit the ground, and the tinderbox clattered down next to it. A single spark, from the metal on stone was enough to flare the dregs of the oil, blinding Heinrich and his would-be assailant.

The watchman rolled, moving by memory to the outer edge of the tower and levelling his spear to the inside. His opponent swore loudly, and swang wildly. The sword bit into the watchtower’s wooden support, and Heinrich seized the opportunity to stab his side. Finally, his duty remembered, he yelled.

“Attack! We’re under attack!”

The town rose like a besieged beehive, and angry murmur turning into the clang of weapons being grabbed and the thud of doors being thrown open. No one would take their town from them in their sleep.

The lone boy, who had watched the show play out and raised the alarm well before the watchman had learned his lesson.

A lamp that goes out is no good at all.

He never forgot.


End file.
